


linger

by kitseybarbours



Series: stay with me [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Bisexual Character, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantasizing, Friends With Benefits, Jealousy, Loneliness, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:14:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24503713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitseybarbours/pseuds/kitseybarbours
Summary: Martin asks Tim for a favour.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Series: stay with me [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1750270
Comments: 32
Kudos: 140





	linger

**Author's Note:**

> Set after [never have i ever](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24300457). Just FYI: the fics in this series get steadily less fun as we go along.

* * *

Tim waits. Brief, blessed silence, about the time it takes for the last notes of the song to die away…and then there it is again, muffled by the wall but still undeniably _there_. The soft guitar chords, building into a sentimental swell of strings, and then the soulful Irish croon:

_If you, if you could return  
Don’t let it burn  
Don’t let it fade…_

God, Tim _wishes_ he could let it fade. It’s been hours—or at least one very _long_ hour—and he’s absolutely certain he’ll never get this song out of his head. He’s finally had enough. Pushing back his desk chair amidst the piles of bankers’ boxes, loose files, battered binders, and all the other junk that gets piled into the spare archival office, he leaves his temporary workspace and goes to knock on Martin’s door.

None of this, he will reflect later, would have happened if his _actual_ office hadn’t flooded, relegating him to the spare one between Sasha’s and Martin’s until maintenance took care of the leak. He still can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.

There’s no response after his knock. He’s not surprised, given the volume of the music. So he tries the door handle, knowing he’ll find it unlocked. ‘Martin?’

He pushes the door open to find Martin sat gazing morosely at his computer screen. His elbow is propped on his desk, one cheek pillowed on his hand; he is the very picture of lovelorn melancholia suggested by his soundtrack.

 _‘Martin,’_ Tim says again, louder this time, and Martin gives a startled squeak. He clicks frantically at his computer, trying to shut the music off. The song is just building to its agonised chorus _—You know I’m such a fool for you; you’ve got me wrapped around your finger—_ when it cuts off abruptly, Martin apparently having landed upon the right window in his struggles.

‘Tim,’ he says, his voice somewhere in the stratosphere. ‘What—what can I do for you?’

‘You’ve just done it,’ Tim tells him. ‘Turned that bloody music down. Look, I like the nineties as much as anyone, but _man,_ it’s getting a little…miserable in here.’

‘You can _hear it?’_

‘From next door? Loud and clear. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were stuffing cotton wool in their ears in the _library,_ mate.’

‘Oh, bugger.’ Martin winces. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just…’ He looks up at Tim, and his face flares red. ‘I’ve been having a…a rough few days.’

It’s Tim’s turn to wince. This is the first time they’ve spoken since their disastrous pub night last weekend. In normal circumstances, their offices are far enough apart that they don’t cross in the corridors unless they mean to—but now Tim’s right here. He’s texted Martin a few times since, left a voicemail or two, apologising over and over, until he decided to interpret the lack of replies as Martin either not wanting to talk about it or having already forgiven him. By the look on his face right now, Tim guesses it’s not the latter.

‘That’s basically my fault, huh?’ he says, lowering his voice. ‘I’m sorry, Martin. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: _it meant nothing._ Genuinely, absolutely _nothing._ I’d tell you to ask Jon—he’d say the same—but, well.’

Pain flashes across Martin’s face at the mention of Jon’s name. ‘Still,’ he says, his tone wounded. ‘It was…a nasty shock. And in front of everyone, no less. I’m not blaming Sasha, I know she didn’t mean to bring it up, but…’ He sighs, pushing up his glasses and rubbing his eyes with one freckled hand. ‘I just. I haven’t been doing—great.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Tim doesn’t know what else to say. As usual, he reaches for humour, casting about in the dark: ‘That song always makes me want to go to IKEA, you know.’

Martin looks up, frowning. ‘What?’

 _‘Linger?_ The Cranberries? Ling…berries? Like, lingonberries? Swedish jam? IKEA? No?’

Martin is blinking at him—but there might be the hint of a smile on his face, one of bewilderment, if nothing else. Tim seizes on it. ‘There we are. See? I didn’t want to hurt you. I _don’t_ want to hurt you. It was…an honest mistake. I promise, I’d never have said a word if I knew it would make you feel like this.’

‘Yeah, well, it still would have happened.’ Martin’s voice is small.

‘I—yeah. You’re right. Yeah. It would have.’

A silence descends. Tim finds himself wishing the music was back: _Come on, Dolores, where are you when I need you?_ And then, after a long moment in which Martin stares at his desk and Tim stares at his shoes, Martin says, timid, ‘I actually…I actually wanted to ask you something.’

Tim looks up. ‘Yeah? What’s up?’

Martin blinks rapidly, not looking him in the eye. ‘So…so you know how you and Jon…Yeah. You did…that. And it was—platonic. No strings attached. No expectations. No…nothing.’

‘Yes?’ says Tim, unsure where this is going.

Martin swallows hard. ‘I wanted to know if…if that was something…you did for everyone. Not just for Jon. Was he…a special case, or would you do that for…all your friends?’

Tim is beginning to understand. He keeps his voice carefully measured. ‘Jon was…kinda special, I guess, insofar as I knew that he would never, uh, stand up for himself in that department. He needed outside intervention, if you know what I mean.’ No need to mention that he, too, has harboured something of a crush on their crotchety boss, on-and-off for a while now, and that his proposition wasn’t _entirely_ altruistic; he can’t betray Martin again so soon.

‘But, I mean—I like sex. I enjoy sex. I think everyone should have the chance to have sex with someone who thinks they’re great, and that sex should be as fun or as tender or as rough or as _whatever_ as they need in that moment. And….so…yeah, I’m happy to extend that courtesy to my friends, if they’re cool with it. As a…favour, I guess. The Tim Stoker Advantage.’ He draws a trademark symbol in the air, smiling slightly. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘A favour,’ Martin repeats, his voice wavering. ‘For your friends.’

‘Yup.’

‘Are we friends?’

‘Of course we are.’ Tim speaks gently. ‘I think I know what you’re getting at here.’

The words come in a rush. ‘Would you? With me? For—me?’

‘I’d say it’s about the least I can do.’

Martin takes a deep breath. ‘What if I…what if, what if what I like—what I need right now—is…embarrassing?’

Tim chuckles. ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed by now, but _shame_ isn’t really in my vocabulary.’ He glances around, realising that the door is still open and Sasha is working just down the hall. Judging by the volume at which he was being pelted with Cranberries, he wouldn’t be shocked if she could hear at least some of their conversation through the thin walls.

‘Listen. This probably isn’t the best place to hash out the specifics, yeah? But—it’s a yes. I will have sex with you, Martin Blackwood, because you are my friend and I’ve done you wrong and I’d like to try and make things right. And because you’re cute as all hell,’ he can’t resist adding, grinning when Martin’s face pinks right up again.

‘O-Okay,’ Martin stammers, smiling weakly back. ‘When…?’

‘Whenever. Shoot me a text, time and place, I’ll be there. Let me know if I need to bring anything.’ He winks.

‘Thanks. Thank you, Tim. I’ll…be in touch.’ He looks relieved.

‘Do I need to go nick Sasha’s noise-cancelling headphones on the way back to my desk or have you gotten it out of your system?’

Martin gives him a thumbs-up. ‘I think I’m okay for now.’

 _‘That’s_ my boy.’

* * *

He gets the text a couple days later, after work, just as he’s walked in the door of his flat and is starting to think about dinner. When he reads it, though, he accepts at once that he’ll be changing his plans.

**Martin 17.42**

Hey um

Are you free tonight? For what we talked about?

**Tim 17.44**

for sure. your place? mine?

He watches the three dots appear and disappear as Martin contemplates; he can practically see him, bent over his phone, his brow furrowing as he overthinks this decision just like every other. Tim smiles, waiting.

**Martin 17.50**

Round mine would be more comfortable I think. What time is good?

**Tim 17.51**

i can be over there rn if u want. do u need me to bring anything with?

**Martin 17.52**

Right now sounds good. I don’t need anything.

Thanks :^)

Tim sends him back a thumbs-up. He hasn’t even taken off his shoes and coat; he grabs a protein bar for the road and heads out again. Double-checking Martin’s address, he walks to the station and hops back on the Tube.

The ride isn’t too long, but Tim uses it to wonder what, exactly, Martin’s going to want to do tonight. He’d been worried about embarrassment: for himself? For Tim? For them both? As with most of his friends, Tim’s given some thought to what Martin would be like in bed: he’s got him down for tender stuff, really gentle, lots of cuddling and maybe a good cry after. But maybe he’s got him all wrong. Maybe he’s got all kinds of filthy kinks that he’s still working on accepting; maybe that’s what they’ll be up to tonight?

Tim has no idea. All he knows is, he wants to do this—whatever it is—and it’s not just to make amends.

He jogs up the steps to Martin’s fifth-floor flat, pausing on the third landing to take a breath. He shoots Martin a text when he’s reached the right floor, and soon enough sees a door open down the hall, Martin’s curly head peeking out.

‘Hi,’ he says, shyly. ‘Thanks for coming over.’

‘Told you I would, didn’t I? I’m a man of my word.’ Tim shuts the door behind him and kicks off his Converse. ‘I’ve come empty-handed, as per your request. No surprises.’

‘I don’t like those,’ Martin admits. ‘D’you want—a drink or something?’

‘If you feel like drinking a third of a beer, I’ll finish it for you.’ Tim winks. ‘Otherwise, I’m all right.’

‘Okay. Cool. Sounds good.’ Martin wipes his palms on his jeans. ‘I’m sorry, I just—I don’t really know…how this is supposed to go?’

‘However you want it to,’ Tim reassures him.

‘Okay. Um. Okay. Ah—the bedroom is...this way.’

‘Lead the way.’

The bedroom is small, cosy, very Martin. There are posters on the wall for old horror films that Tim has never heard of; on closer inspection, their titles appear to be in Polish. A tall, crowded bookshelf leans precariously against one wall, one of its shelves dotted with candles and action figures and a cross-stitch hoop featuring a death’s head moth. ‘Sasha make this?’ Tim asks, picking it up.

‘Yup. My last birthday. She’s good at that.’

There’s a pile of knitting things in one corner, balls of yarn in comfortable, muted shades of blue and grey and green. A sweater-in-progress waits on a pair of needles, studded here and there with colourful stitch markers. ‘I was going to make a scarf for Jon, I thought,’ Martin says softly, seeing where Tim’s gaze lands. ‘Something nice—cables and everything—he just always looks _cold._ For his birthday or something. But I don’t know if he’d like it.’

‘I didn’t know Jon _had_ a birthday,’ Tim replied. ‘Always figured he was hatched.’

He’s gratified by the short, guilty laugh that escapes Martin’s lips, as though they’re schoolboys mocking the headteacher. Tim takes a seat on the bed. ‘Is there anything you wanna talk about before we get started?’ he asks. ‘Any hard boundaries, big no-nos, anything like that?’ He remembers their conversation in Martin’s office: ‘It sounded like you had an idea already. Of what you needed.’

Martin sits down next to him, thinking. After a moment he shakes his head. ‘I’m not—I’m not ready to talk about that yet. I’ll…keep you posted, yeah?’

‘Of course. Anything else?’

Martin looks down at his lap. ‘Just…please be nice to me? I know my body’s not, it’s not _perfect,_ it’s not—’

‘Hey,’ Tim interrupts him. ‘It’s a lovely body. And I’m here to make sure it feels good. That sound good to you?’

Gratitude fills Martin’s face. ‘Yeah. Yeah, it does.’

‘Can I kiss you?’

‘Yes. Please.’

Martin, Tim soon discovers, is a wonderful person to kiss. His mouth is soft and yielding and deliciously sensitive, as Tim finds out when he runs his tongue along Martin’s bottom lip and Martin melts against him with a moan. He’s eager, reaching for Tim, his hands running up and down Tim’s back as they kiss: he wants touch, he needs touch, as much of it as he can get. Tim hopes he can give him enough.

In a short time Martin is breathing shallowly, his face hot. ‘Can we—get undressed?’

‘Course we can.’ Tim unbuttons his shirt as Martin pulls his sweater over his head, squashing his glasses on the way up. Before taking off the shirt beneath it, he warns Tim again, ‘I know you _know,_ but…I’m fat. Just—just reminding you.’

‘You’re fat _and_ you’re gorgeous. Just reminding _you,’_ Tim retorts. ‘Come here.’

Martin blushes all the way down his chest. Tim can see it as he unbuttons Martin’s shirt, slowly, revealing sweet pink nipples and still more freckles. He can’t resist bending his head to Martin’s right nipple and taking it in his mouth; Martin gasps as Tim’s tongue laves over it, followed by a quick nip of his teeth.

‘That good?’

_‘Yes.’_

Tim lavishes attention on Martin’s chest for as long as he can stand, until Martin is panting and whispering, ‘No more, no more.’ He pulls Tim close to him and kisses him deeply, almost desperately, rutting against his leg; Tim is hard, and Martin is too.

‘Trousers off?’ Tim whispers, and Martin nods vigorously. They undress in a hurry, down to their boxers, and then Tim straddles him again and they are kissing, Martin’s hands hot and firm on Tim’s back, keeping him close. Martin makes little sounds in his throat, small and _wanting,_ and Tim gets more and more turned on each time.

Finally Martin breaks the kiss and takes a deep breath, clearly steeling himself. He says, ‘I want—I want you to fuck me. Please.’

‘I can do that.’ Tim strokes a stray sandy curl back from Martin’s forehead. ‘How do you want it? On your back? Riding me?’

‘I don’t like to be...looked at,' Martin confesses. 'I don't want you to—see.'

‘The mortifying ordeal of being known. I get it.’ Tim kisses him and climbs off of him, allowing Martin room to move. ‘Turn around for me, yeah? There’s a good boy.’

Martin, flushing all over at his words, braces himself on hands and knees. Tim takes a moment to appreciate the sight of him—there are freckles on the backs of his thighs, _God,_ he’s too sweet—and then reaches for the lube, placed inconspicuously on the corner of Martin’s bedside table. He slicks his fingers and asks, ‘Ready?’

‘Yes.’

He opens him slowly, one finger at a time. Here as elsewhere Martin is incredibly sensitive, giving soft moans and shivering all over as Tim touches him, spreads him wider.

‘All okay?’

‘Yes. It’s—it’s good.’

'Feel like enough?'

‘Yeah, I think.’

‘Have you got a condom?’

‘Bottom drawer.’

Tim fetches one, tears off the wrapper, guides it over his cock. ‘Are you ready?’ he asks.

‘Yes. Yes.’

Tim guides himself inside of Martin, one hand resting on the dip of his back. Martin hisses an exhale as Tim enters him, but he doesn’t clench up or tense or cry out. ‘Good?’

 _‘Yes._ Really good.’ Martin’s voice is unsteady. ‘I want—I want you deeper. Please.’

In answer Tim seats himself fully, bending to kiss the swell of Martin’s buttocks (freckled too). Martin shivers all over, letting out a low, soft curse. Tim straightens up and places his hands on Martin’s waist, tracing circles on the soft skin. ‘Normally I’ve got quite a filthy mouth. That okay with you?’

Martin hesitates. ‘Not...not tonight. If that's okay.’

‘Got it. You just tell me what you need.’

‘I will. Thank you.’

Tim begins to thrust into him. Martin is hot and tight around him; he feels wonderful, and normally Tim would tell him so, but as requested he keeps his mouth shut. He can see that Martin has closed his eyes, his lips parting slightly; he wonders what he’s thinking about.

Martin drops down onto his elbows after a few minutes, resting one cheek on his pillow, and lets out a soft cry at the change of angle, clenching around Tim’s cock in a way that makes Tim moan aloud. Encouraged, he fucks him slow and deep, hitting the spot again and again that draws sweet, broken sounds from his lips.

They go on like this for minutes, and Tim starts to sink into a haze of bliss before remembering that this really isn’t about him. Martin has begun to tremble. At first Tim thinks it’s the effort of holding himself up, but then he realises that Martin is shaking because he is crying. ‘Martin,’ he says, ‘do you need me to stop?’

‘No,’ Martin says, raising his head. ‘But I need to…I need to tell you something. What I—what I really want.’

‘What is it? Whatever it is, I’m not here to judge.’

Martin bows his head. His next words are almost muffled by the pillow; Tim has to strain to hear.

‘I need to pretend that you’re him.’ He takes a shallow, ragged breath. ‘I don’t—I don’t need you to _do_ anything, to, to, act like Jon, or anything, but I just…need to tell myself that you are. That you’re him.’ He swallows, hard. ‘It might be as close as I ever get.’

Tim’s heart breaks for him. ‘Okay,’ he says gently. ‘Okay. Thank you for being honest with me. That must have been difficult; I’m glad you can trust me.’

Martin nods silently.

‘Can I keep going?’

‘Just fuck me,’ Martin says in a thin voice. ‘Please.’

So Tim fucks him, rolling his hips in measured circles, his hands steady on Martin’s waist. Martin takes him beautifully, he _is_ beautiful, like this, and normally Tim would tell him, would whisper honeyed words into his ear until he comes apart beneath him, because he ought to _know._ But that’s not what Martin needs; that won’t help him right now. He stays silent, hearing the rhythmic squeak of the bedframe, Martin’s snuffling breaths and quiet sobs.

‘Jon,’ Martin whispers. ‘Please, Jon.’

And Tim feels a tender yawning void open up inside his chest. If Jon weren’t so _repressed,_ and if Tim hadn’t been so cavalier, and Sasha hadn’t…Well. It’s no use assigning blame. Things are the way they are, and Martin is in love with Jon, and Jon is…Jon. Martin might be right; this might be as close as he ever gets.

It’s painful to think about, even for Tim—but, he thinks, _at least he has this. At least I can give him this._ He grips Martin’s hips and drives into him, feeling redeemed, somehow, by the thready moan loosed from Martin’s lips.

‘I want to come,’ Martin says, half a sob. ‘Please, Jon, I want to come for you. Let me be good for you.’

‘What do you need?’ Tim whispers, not slowing his pace.

‘Touch me. Make me come.’

Tim reaches around the softness of his belly and takes his cock in hand. Like the rest of him it’s thick and solid and soft-skinned, nestled in a thatch of curls more gingery than those on his head. Tim strokes his testicles and then fists his cock loosely, and Martin’s cries grow louder with each brush of his fingers, turning to short, desperate shouts when Tim circles the head with the pad of his thumb. _Good boy,_ he wants to say, _you’re good, God, you’re so good, Jon doesn’t know what he’s missing._ It’s with a twist of something proud and wicked in his stomach that he fucks into Martin as hard as he can while delivering firm, deliberate strokes to the sensitive head of his cock. _Come for him, for me, for us._

Martin bucks and jerks beneath him and comes into Tim’s hand, ‘Jon, _Jon’_ spilling choked from his mouth. Tim follows him quickly over the edge, his body buzzing with a strange jealous elation. His fingertips dig into Martin’s waist and he watches them through his orgasm, the way the flesh turns white beneath his hand.

* * *

When he can breathe again, Tim peels off the condom and gets up to find the wastebasket. Returning to bed, he finds Martin curled on his side, sobbing silently. His glasses lie forlorn on the pillow.

‘Hey, hey,’ Tim says, hurrying to lie down next to him and take Martin in his arms. ‘Hey, hey, are you okay? Was something not good?’

‘S’not—s’not that.’ Martin sucks in a breath as another wave of sobs overtakes him. Tim holds him, waiting for the tears to subside so Martin can tell him what he needs. After a few moments he wipes his face with the back of his hand and says, shakily, ‘I’m sorry. It was good—it was _really_ good—I just…’ He squeezes his eyes shut, looking ashamed. ‘It’s not…him.’

‘I know. I know.’ Tim wraps Martin tighter in his arms. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry Jon’s an idiot who can’t see what’s right in front of his nose. And I’m sorry that I can’t give you everything you need. You deserve it, you know.’

‘Thanks,’ says Martin, his voice watery. ‘I would go and pick the bloke the _least_ likely to ever give it to me to go on and fall in love with, wouldn’t I?’

‘Such is life, my friend.’ Tim kisses his cheek. ‘Jon’ll come around one day, I’m sure of it. He’ll finally open his eyes and then— _bam!_ There’s you, right in front of him, irresistible as a fresh-picked peach. Or,’ he adds, remembering how they got here, ‘a cranberry, perhaps?’

Martin groans, covering his eyes with his hands; but he’s smiling. ‘I’m never forgetting my headphones again, I can tell you that right now.’

‘Hey, mate, it’s all right. Some people listen to “Linger” by the Cranberries from the 1993 compilation album _Everybody Else is Doing it, So Why Can’t We?_ forty-six times in a row to cope.’ Tim places his hand on his heart. ‘I get it.’

‘Forty-seven,’ Martin corrects him, grinning now.

‘Forty- _seven._ My mistake.’

Martin fumbles for his glasses and rolls over to check the time. ‘Oh, gosh, it’s getting late.’

‘Do you need me to…?’ Usually when your hookup starts mentioning the time, it’s time to go. Tim sits up, looking around for his boxers.

‘Oh. Oh, I—Um, sure. If you—need to.’

Tim pauses in pulling on his jeans. ‘Are you sure? I don’t…have to.’

But Martin is already getting up, looking for his own boxers, pulling them on in a hurry and then going to the dresser for a pair of track pants. ‘No, no, it’s fine. We have to work tomorrow—it’s probably better if—if, um, we sleep in our own beds tonight. It’s fine.’

‘Okay,’ Tim says, not entirely convinced.

By the time he’s fully dressed again and toeing his shoes on at the door, he’s even less certain that Martin wants him to leave; he can feel the distance between them growing, and it’s as though Martin is sending out tendrils of longing, like a cool fog, trying to bring him closer again. He’s asked again, though, and a third time to be sure, and again and again the answer has been ‘No, I’m all right, I sleep better on my own,’ in a tone that sounds less and less casual with each repetition.

‘Right, then,’ Tim says, unable to delay his exit any longer. He feels for his phone and Oystercard in his pocket, rocking on his heels. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then, yeah? Thanks for a good night.’

‘Thank _you,’_ Martin says. ‘So much.’

Tim smiles at him. One more chance, one last chance, for Martin to close the gap and ask him to stay; he _needs_ him to stay, he needs someone with him, Tim can see it in his eyes; but Martin only smiles back, and reaches up to press a quick, awkward kiss to his cheek, and the moment has passed.

If Tim were a different man, he would have stayed anyway. If Tim were a different man, though, they wouldn’t be here in the first place. He looks at Martin, and he hears again his broken whisper of Jon’s name as he came. It’s as though now, after tonight, he can see through the cheerful veneer, right down to the sheer loneliness that lingers just beneath. He’ll never be able to look away from it again.

Tim raises a hand in farewell. ‘Night, Martin. Take care of yourself.’ He looks at him. ‘He’ll figure it out one day. He’s got to.’

Martin gives a tired laugh. ‘And in the meantime, I’ll keep waiting. I’m getting good at it.’ His smile fails to reach his eyes. ‘Night, Tim.’

He leaves him there, peering round the threshold to watch Tim make it to the stairway, giving him a thumbs-up when he gets there. ‘Bye,’ Martin calls again; and Tim descends the five flights to the foyer, and turns up his collar against the chill night wind, and he knows without knowing that Martin has gone to bed alone, as alone as if Tim had never touched him; as alone as if he’d never been there at all.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> A couple months ago I tweeted “martin blackwood more like linger_the_cranberries.mp3” and I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to do something about it. If you don’t know the song (and somehow avoided looking it up while reading this), please [go listen to it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G6Kspj3OO0s) and think about Martin and get sad, as I have so obviously done.
> 
> Once you've done that, feel free to come shout at me on [Twitter.](https://twitter.com/saintmontague) :^)


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